


Lush

by riverbed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, I'm Surprised at Myself, M/M, Name Calling, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme: "Illya Kuryakin is a Moscow street whore, just like his mother. Napoleon Solo is a rich art dealer doing business with the Tretyakov Gallery who wants a diversion for the night."</p><p>I got carried away with this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Square

Moscow was especially alive tonight despite the overcast sky. Illya knew it was risky to be prowling around the city square on a weekend, but more tourists meant more potential customers. He seemed to be off his game this particular evening, however. He sat on a fountain's bench as people bustled past, grasping their shopping bags from the GUM close and hastening their children into parked cars. It was interesting how consumerism drove their supposedly selfless economy even still, Illya mused; it was interesting that he had to sell himself for a meal under a government that had promised him so much more.

His mother had done the same. Granted, times were different, then, twenty years ago in the midst of the war; things were desolate. He remembered living in so many different places, looking after his younger brother and sisters, relying on "доброта незнакомцев;" as she would say. The kindness of strangers. Illya thought, as he looked upon the faces of his comrades and took in their tendency to jostle one another as they passed, that surely kindness wasn't valued by Russians anymore, certainly not to the extent his mother had brought him up to think it would be. “Illyusha,” she would address sternly, as though she were preparing him to enter battle, “you will see. Europe will grow tired of this war, will solve their differences, will forgive, will heal.” As much as he yearned for this to be true, he found the possibility very unlikely.

Upon maturing, he had found himself in a world that was surely as hard, and as unforgiving, as the shaded version of his mother's world he had been presented as a child. She moved with such caution, he could remember, her paranoia ever-present. It was the same for him, nowadays. He was afraid, and ashamed of it, constantly looking over his shoulder. At least he didn't have a family to support – that, he wasn't sure how his mother had managed. And he had a little flat, a place he had furnished to his liking and called his own, so he didn't have to move aroaund. He never brought dates there; he made them pay for hotels. They were always willing, of course, didn't even think to ask otherwise. It never occurred to them that someone with his job was a real person, full of thoughts and passions and with responsibilities other than to lie still and endure the stink of their breath and the weight of their gut for ten minutes.

Rain had started to drizzle from the clouds looming in the sky, half-lit by a bright moon hovering against the horizon. Illya heard the sound of drops hitting the water behind him, and then registered the sensation of them hitting his hair and shoulders. He was without a jacket, and the walk home was longer than was entirely pleasant in a storm, but he found that tonight he didn't mind much. He didn't feel like working anymore, anyhow, not after letting his mind drift in such a way. But just as he rose to start toward the path home, an American accent stopped him short.

“Want some company?” said a stranger, voice resonating off the stone of the fountain's side. The voice was beautiful, husky and confident. A voice full of fine, aged whisky, of decadence and all the things Illya found sinful. Turning to face the man, he realised that they were practically alone in the Square – all others had retired inside, and the moon sat high in the sky now, illuminated the ribbons of rain as they fell. If Illya were inclined to such descriptions, he would have called the moment almost romantic.

The American was a little shorter and a little older than himself, with dark hair slicked back and piercing eyes of ice blue. He was dressed sharply – decidedly _Western_ , thought Illya – in a navy trench Illya could tell was Laroche and shoes of fine, tanned leather. At least Illya could appreciate the craftsmanship. He scowled. He did _not_ like Americans.

“Your shoes will get ruined, Cowboy. Go back to plush hotel, let Russians be Russians in peace.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” the American said without missing a beat, skipping sideways to block Illya's path as he tried to move away. Illya realised he had come from the Tretyakov Gallery. Art collector. Not flamboyant enough, and too richly groomed, to be an artist. That explained what he was doing in the country. Likely trading in disgusting Nazi paraphernalia. Illya had heard that Hitler wanted to be a painter but was too untalented to attract any attention from the major art schools. He wondered who the market was for that kind of thing, who paid money so hard-earned for a mass murderer's early, failed creativity. Maybe it was a reminder for them that everyone has their calling?

The Cowboy cleared his throat. Illya sighed. “What is it you want? You are very intent on delaying me, rich boy.”

“You don't have to field such immature names at me. I'm simply curious about you. What brings you out in the rain?”

“Maybe I like the rain. What does American care?” Illya turned again, starting to hustle toward the Square's exit that was actually opposite the direction he needed to go in. His real path was past the gallery, and this man was really starting to grind his nerves. But his face swam again in his vision as rainwater was splashed onto the ankles of his wool trousers, the older man cutting him off once again with his body. Illya was really irritated now, staring at the American's infuriatingly enduring grin and sparkling white teeth.

“Cowboy, I am really not good at controlling temper. _Get out of my way,”_ Illya warned, hoping to God his bluff wouldn't be called. Of course, it was.

“Were you not hoping someone with just my inclination would wander out to you this evening? I saw you sitting on the fountain for an hour from up there in the offices.” He pointed up at the lit windows in the top floors of the gallery, behind Illya now. “You're open for business,” the American concluded, nodding triumphantly, his hands on his hips, his stance confident and infuriating.

“Closed now. Goodnight.” Illya shoved past him, bumping shoulders, he hoped painfully.

“I can pay _really_ good money,” the older man cooed, seemingly very dedicated. Illya turned on his heel, the slick cobblestone sliding him easily around. He could feel his trouser legs sticking at the bottom where they had gotten wet in the American's carelessness.

“How good?”

“I have 500 rubles on me, but if that won't do...” The man looked almost sheepish, now; when Illya really looked, he could see that past the grin, there was tiredness, and a few crow's feet creeping at his eyes. But he was charming, Illya would concede that, and apparently was a serious customer, knowing just what he was looking for and willing to pay for it. “Just let me know what you need. I'm exhausted and away from home and... lonely.” He offered another smile, this one more friendly, less predatory; a request for permission.

Illya hesitated. This was a ridiculous amount of money for one night's work – the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he had a split-second tinge of the feeling that came with an offer too good to be true. He'd had his share of near misses in the years since his late teens that he'd been doing this, brutish, sweaty men only keen on hurting him and women with strange husbands who wanted to watch, then decided midway through that they'd be better off chasing him out with a gun. But none of them had had eyes as kind as this man's, and in retrospect, he had to admit to himself that there had been tells in each of those cases – feelings he'd had, before agreeing to the terms, that things would end badly. All things considered, this situation gave off no warning siren of ill intent.

“Two now,” he said slowly, still a good five feet away, watching the faded light from the street lamps and buildings illuminate the stranger's chiseled jaw. He watched him toss his hands up, palms out. “Whatever you say, boss. This is your show, I'm just here for the ride.” He smirked. Illya was incensed.

“Need to teach you how to conduct business transaction. American slime, with pretty coat and shoes, come waltzing into Red Square thinking they own the place. When in Rome,” Illya muttered.

He nodded curtly and turned away again, heading toward Kitay-gorod and the Savoy behind it. “You get room. Leave me key at desk,” he said to the air ahead, but behind him, the American smiled.


	2. The Savoy

“You're awfully rude to paying customers, you know,” Napoleon said, taking a handful of the Russian's hair and tilting his head back with it. He had him pinned between his body and the hotel room's wall, taller and stronger, yes, but with every disadvantage of leverage against him. And Napoleon was no slouch, either – his body was well-muscled and practiced, used to dominating physically. He had full confidence in his ability to keep him there, especially given the erratic state the young man's breath was coming in and the way his hips kept rolling against his own, trying to drum up friction between them.

“Rude?” the Russian spat, less spitefully than breathlessly. “How so?”

“'American slime?'” Napoleon mocked, punctuating by grinding his knee upward, his left leg between the other man's thighs. “Do you really view us all so lowly, as lushes wrapped up in velvet and lace? Such a detriment to your communist playland?”

“Convince me -” he gasped as Napoleon reached down and brushed his fingers against the waistband of his cotton underwear - “of other circumstance.”

“I'll convince you of something, but I don't actually think it's going to help my case.” He leaned into his companion, breathing hotly against his neck and collarbone. Their chests were bare, the whore in only his briefs, Napoleon still in his linen trousers and stocking feet. He pressed his lips against his companion's skin. “After all,” he whispered against it, tasting the sweat and feeling his pulse flare, “I'm a glutton when it comes to this.”

The Russian man moaned, his head lolling to the side to allow Napoleon further access. He kissed down his shoulder, tonguing at what looked like a knife scar across his bicep. There was a groan from above him. “You never told me your name,” he coaxed.

The other scoffed. “Not in this lifetime, Cowboy. You are smart man. You know how this works.”

“Thank you!” Napoleon grinned at him, then caught himself and scowled. “What can I call you?”

He watched him think for a moment. “Peril,” he answered, and Napoleon looked up at him from his chest questioningly. “A nickname for me, of my mother's,” he provided quietly, looking away. Napoleon decided it was best not to pry there.

He focused his attention on the tanned expanse of the Peril's chest, biting down to nibble on the dark pink bud on the left side, feeling his body quake and his cock harden against his thigh under the pain. “You like that, don't you, whore?” He blew cool air on the freshly worked nipple, watching it tighten and wrinkle. “You could come just rubbing against me like that, I'll bet. You've been trained well.” He admired the man's wide shoulders, his beautiful skin, his light eyes, foggy with lust. “Ah, little Peril. So pretty, but I'll be sure not to treat you like porcelain. I'm paying good money for the use of you and use is what I will get out of you.” He watched the man shudder again, his hair sweaty and flopping into his eyes. “You do what I say tonight. Is that understood?” He watched him nod, his lips parted. “Say it,” Napoleon hissed, nipping at his jawline.

“I do what you say,” the younger man whispered, and Napoleon could tell he was not used to this sort of treatment, but if the wet spot on his briefs was any indication, he was enjoying himself. Napoleon nodded approvingly.

“Good. Now, drop these,” he tugged at the fabric of the pants, snapping the elastic against his waist, “and lie on your back on the bed.”

His eyes drifted down the back of the younger man as he tugged his underwear off, dropping them to the floor to reveal his finely muscled buttocks. A truly gorgeous ass, perfectly round. Peril kicked the underwear across the floor and turned to face him so he could lie back, and Napoleon eyed his long cock as he shifted on the bed, observing how it was almost fully hard, curling back toward his belly as he lay on his back.

He eyed Napoleon questioningly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Just looking, Cowboy?” He smirked at him. This would never do.

“Touch yourself,” Napoleon said breathlessly. Peril narrowed his eyes. “That's it?”

“You are to do what I say,” Napoleon snapped, then his features softened. “Touch yourself,” he said again, slowly moving toward the bed. “Show me how the Red Peril gets off.” He watched his companion's face flush, and he laid out flat to free his arms, grasping his cock with his left hand and tugging upward. His legs stuck out over the side of the bed, his bare feet planted on the gaudy carpet. Napoleon moved toward him and knelt between his spread legs, hearing the whore's breath hitch as he encroached on his space. He was eye-level with Peril's cock, watching it harden further as he continued his manipulations. His balls tight and full, his hips arched upward in his body's unconscious attempt to stay in contact. His hand never left his groin except to spit on it. It was the most beautiful show Napoleon had ever taken in, and he freed himself from his trousers, his cock springing free of his own shorts. He hissed as cool air surrounded him, a sensation so stunningly different from the heat that had collected inside his pants.

“Yes, that's it, Peril. Show me what you do to yourself when there's no one to fuck you,” he breathed. He straightened his posture so he was hovering over the Soviet's cock, staring him dead in the eye. “Do you feel lost without a man around to use you, Peril? I'll bet you lie around all day on those days, debauched and dirty, working this cock of yours just like this, wishing someone would fill that hole. Maybe you wouldn't even care if they'd pay,” he accused. “Maybe you live for taking cock.”

“да,” Peril gasped, throwing his head back hard into the blankets and arching further. “You are evil man,” he gasped, his hand flattening on his groin, at the base of his cock, Napoleon having stilled its motion with his own. He tried to catch his breath, but Napoleon's tongue darted out to flick against the tip of his cock, and each nerve in his body screamed as he was enveloped by the hot wetness of the American's mouth. Napoleon swallowed him down in one go, slapping his hand away when he tried to thread his fingers through his rainslicked hair.

Illya reached back and grabbed hold of the blankets instead, figuring he might as well enjoy the attention. Usually he got very little pleasure out of this, but as much as it pained him to admit it, the Cowboy was partly right – he loved being doted upon and had very few who would indulge him. His regular customers were at least partially concerned with getting him off, sure – but only because they found it more satisfying when he came. If being used meant being able to lie back and relax while someone sucked his cock or fucked him hard, then he did suppose he loved to be used.

“Solo,” Peril groaned, and Napoleon felt a little twinge of pride. The little bastard had snuck a peek at his wallet, he realised. A _very_ street smart whore. He spat on his cock again, slicking it down with his hand, and then took it back in his mouth, his tongue circling the head and stiffening to stroke down the sensitive underside. He felt his own need growing insistent, and his skin felt like it was aflame. Peril was bucking up against his face, now, his lean arms taut as they reached back above his head to fist in the blankets. Napoleon admired his body, the way his chest heaved as he breathed, the flush across his stomach and up to his neck, the effort of concentration and need apparent on his face. He panted mournfully, staring at Napoleon as he pulled away completely, leaving his cock dripping saliva and precome onto his flat tummy.

Solo felt renewed with pride, watching the younger man admire him as he stripped what little clothing he had left on. He felt his eyes on his cock, thick and dark and full, so hard without having been touched. He palmed at it, seeing stars. He was going to enjoy this.

“Turn over. Get your face on the bed,” he demanded, watching the Russian scramble to do as he was told, his knees up under him and his arms out in front. His biceps were going to be sore, Napoleon thought, and he smiled at the thought of Peril remembering him tomorrow.

His ass stuck straight up in the air, pulled taut across the muscle, was an inviting sight indeed. Napoleon knelt behind him and gave his right cheek an experimental smack, leaving his hand there and feeling the supple skin heat up under his fingers. Peril moaned. He smiled again. He knew it.

“Turns out you really needed to be punished, huh?” Peril shot him a look over his shoulder, up his back. His grin infuriated him, Napoleon could tell. “Eyes forward,” Napoleon chided, slapping his ass again. “You bad boy. Disobedient little whore.”

His body shuddered beneath his hands. Napoleon kept a hand on his hip and slapped him a few more times with his right, until his ass was a nice pink and Peril was arching up into the contact. “You even like this, don't you, whore?” He punctuated this with a particularly hard smack to his left cheek, and he thought he could see his handprint there for a moment after it. “You like your pretty little ass spanked?”

Peril swore in Russian. Napoleon was unrelenting, spanking him three more times. “Say it, slut. Tell me how much you love me spanking you.”

Illya grit his teeth. He had never been so turned on in his life, and all at the hands of an American, no less! An American calling him names! “I...” he said, feeling tears well up behind his eyelids. He was ashamed of himself, put into such an undignified position. “I love your spanking, Cowboy.”

“Mm,” Solo hummed. “That's better.” He reached down and stroked his own cock, feeling dizzy again. “Is this hole of yours still tight, whore? Or has it been used too much? Have you ever had men line up for you, Peril, using you over and over for hours? Come dripping out of you and down your legs? Did they pay attention to your cock, Peril, or did they let you suffer, make you beg? Maybe they didn't let you come until the next morning, after your mouth and ass had been thoroughly used by all of them.” He spit on his hand and started working his fingers against Peril's hole, pushing one in and feeling the channel spasm around him. He swore. He was tight after all. Though Napoleon had had no real doubt about that, it still made his stomach lurch and his cock harden impossibly further. “That must have been torture, Peril. I bet they bound you where they wanted you, so they had easy access to the holes they could fuck, your hands useless no matter how much you begged to be allowed to touch your whore cock.” He added a second slicked-up finger. “In the moments when your mouth wasn't full, of course.”

Illya's head was spinning and through all of it the rage he should have felt was very last on his mind, but the pads of the American's deft fingers kept brushing that most sensitive spot inside him and then -

He cried out as Solo pressed directly against his prostate, bucking his hips against absolutely nothing, arching his back like a cat. He could feel the precome slick against the head of his dick, and he pressed back against Napoleon, incoherent. “Пожалуйста!” he exclaimed. The pressure on his prostate didn't relent, just rubbed harder, and he felt his hole being stretched by a third digit inside him. He could think of nothing else but the American's cock, wanted it in him so bad, wanted to be torn apart by it. He sobbed. “Please, Cowboy, fuck me.”

He breathed out as Napoleon withdrew his fingers and leaned down over him to brush the hair from the back of his neck and kiss there, all the way down his back. “You're a bad little thing. You're out of control,” he whispered against the small of his back. “Such a naughty thing, begging to be filled by a man's cock.” Illya purred and arched as Napoleon got closer and closer to his ass again. “Ask me again, real nicely this time. Ask me to use your hole.”

“P-please...” Peril stuttered, trying to swim through the haze in his head to get the words out, “Please, use me. Fuck me, Cowboy. Please... I want to take your cock, I want to come being used by your cock.”

Napoleon licked his asshole a couple of times, amused. “You want me to fuck you until you come no hands, huh? God, you are a Soviet slut,” he said conversationally. He gripped the Soviet's hips hard enough to leave bruises and lined up against him, pushing forward until he felt the slick ring open to accept his girth. He didn't think Peril could arch any further, but his shoulders somehow got flatter against the bed as he swore and reached out far with his arms, stretching them and moaning loudly as Napoleon entered him inch by inch.

“Fuck,” Napoleon said, watching, fascinated, as he sheathed himself in the Peril's body. “You... God. Fuck.” He arched, savoring the moment, and bucked his hips forward a little, shutting his eyes and holding his breath. The Russian whined softly and ground back against him, and he pulled out a little more, thrust in again, gently to start. The Russian was having none of it. He mewled and arched, wanton, feminine. Napoleon focused on his smooth back, his wet hair, his outstretched arms, as good as bound. He wished he could see his cock bob as he fucked him, but he wasn't about to change positions now.

He started thrusting with earnest, and knew when he had found the younger man's prostate again, because he swore and balled his hands into fists, gripping the sheets. “Come for me, Peril. Come with my thick American cock inside you. Show me that robust eastern _spirit_ of yours, goddammit.”

Illya howled and propped himself up to arch harder as his cock spilled, unprovoked by touch, onto the bed, come spurting against his belly, feeling Solo's cock scratch teasingly across his prostate as the force of his orgasm shook him and he collapsed as he realised Solo was done for, too, feeling his warm release flooding him as his body milked him of what Napoleon was sure was every last drop of his come.

There was quiet for a few moments, only their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the hotel's electric generator filling the room. “You...” Napoleon shook his head and pulled out slowly, his cock still hard though Napoleon thought he'd never be able to orgasm again. He collapsed next to the blond man and he turned over, and both lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled like sweat and heat, if heat had a scent.

Regaining his composure, Napoleon said, “Well. Five-star review. One of Moscow's finest sights to see.” The younger man smiled but didn't speak. He poked the Russian's side. “Any comments, Peril?”

Peril turned his head and studied him, considering carefully. “Americans are whores,” he said finally, and, caught off guard, Napoleon threw his head back against the pillow and laughed.


End file.
